Night Blurs All Shades
by GearSolidSnake
Summary: Separated by armies and bound by the vicious Civil War, two soldiers can become unlikely friends with just a notebook, a pencil, and the dim moonlight as night blurs the line between friend and enemy.


The blinding light of the shells cast its menacing glow on the Union troops. Such fire ahead was certain of descending into hell itself.

In the dead of night, Rigby nervously clasped his musket, his only measure between life and death. With each earth-shattering cannon, his spine felt more and more weak and brittle. Amidst this strong band of Northern soldiers, stood the lowly raccoon. He was out of place from the start.

He wasn't ready for this. Then again, no one was. Rigby looked at his sides to see his fellow troops silently shuttering in terror.

"Fix bayonets!" the head officer called from the front.

Rigby nervously drew his bayonet and fixed it onto his musket. A slip of the thumb left a small trickle of blood flowing down his hand. He hoped that was the worst he would receive from this battle.

"First Rank, CHARGE!"

Their commander drew his sword as he led the men onward. The sounding bugle called the men to action. Though Rigby would rather rip this blue uniform and flee, he had to press on.

**Battle of Spotsylvania: May 12, 1864; Night 4**

On the other side of the battle-field, the Confederates readied themselves for oncoming Union assault. With cannons raging and muskets firing, every man was ready to defend Ewell's line at all cost.

"Reload!" the young lieutenant ordered. At only twenty-thee, the blue jay, Mordecai, was one of the youngest high-officers on the field, but that didn't hold him back. With every ounce of courage and determination, he gave his all to the cause. Each soldier did not matter.

"A'ight boys," he spat out in his Virginian accent, "Hol' yer fire until I give the orda! Can't be wastin' no ammo!"

After a string of Confederate losses, Mordecai was sure this was the turning point, and he would be the one to do it. Every man here was expendable.

Mordecai remarked to his fellow officer, "Now this is ungentlemanly. 'Ttacking in the middle o' the night! Can' even get a night's rest now, can we Thomas?"

"No sirree," Thomas replied.

From the darkness, the silhouette of the Union line was barely visible. But visible was all he needed. "Take aim!" Mordecai called with his booming voice. The Confederate line of muskets fell straight at their Northern enemies.

"Fire!"

The roar deafened even the cannons. A hail of bullets made their way down the field.

At the other end, Rigby saw the flash of their muskets. He shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

Blood.

He could feel that grotesque liquid latch itself onto him. To his right, a man had been shot in the throat. He collapsed. The line just kept moving.

Another hit! Three more down further to the left. All around it felt as though hell itself opened its fangs.

Rigby silently sobbed to himself as he kept marching. This was too much.

A cannon shell blew apart an entire section of the line.

When they were close enough, the officer finally gave the order, "CHARGE!"

Being pushed from behind, Rigby reluctantly made his way forward.

"Fire at will!" Mordecai shouted. He drew his own Colt revolver. A blow from his pistol killed the charging Union commander.

Rigby stumbled. He fell to the ground only to be kicked and trampled on as his comrades made their way without him. He picket up his rifle. Rigby met eyes with a Confederate soldier.

Nervous hands make nervous shots. Rigby fired at the man and missed completely. Now it was his turn.

Rigby panicked as he desperately tried to reload. The other man leveled his gun only to be himself shot by some unknown soldier.

Now the lines met. Shots did not matter, only the cold clash of flesh and bone. The cannon-fire was replaced with the shouts of savages and the sound of bayonets on flesh.

"This can't be happening..." Rigby tried in vain to rid himself of this pain.

The midnight sky made it impossible to tell who was who. The Northern navy blue blended with the Southern gray. If he had not known better, Rigby would have thought they were killing their own.

Another man fell by Mordecai's sword. The line has been broken. All around, fellow Virginians fell.

"Mordecai, we have to retreat! We've lost a good too many!" the younger Thomas insisted.

"NO! There is no retreat! Fight ti' the last man!"

"Mordecai, I implore you-"

A bullet shot straight through Thomas' chest. He fell onto his back, eyes gazing at the night sky.

A young private tried to drag his ranking officer away but Mordecai threw him back towards the front lines. Thomas was a good friend, but he didn't matter. Dead is dead, dragging his body away would do nothing for him. It also didn't matter that the young man he threw was immediately shot.

"For the love o' God Almighty, HOLD THIS LINE! HOLD THIS- AGGHHH!"

The burning lead of a Union soldier dug it's way through Mordecai's lower leg. He collapsed.

With all the confusion around, not a single person noticed Rigby crawling his way from this clash. He found himself in a crater just behind the front lines. He slid in as he slowly cried to himself. The blood, he needed the blood off of him. His handkerchief did little to nothing to remove the foul stains from his clothes.

Rigby left his musket behind somewhere. In desperation, he grabbed a Southern rifle ajar from himself.

The battle slowly moved away. Rigby began to relax. The coward couldn't tell whether his fellow troops retreated or if the enemy did. But it didn't matter. Right now he was safe in his bowl-shaped hole in the ground.

A ruffle of the grass and a moan alerted Rigby. He drew his gun, hands clattering and wavering.

Limping near the hole, a man emerged. His clothes were tinted in an officer's pattern and he clasped a revolver in his right hand. Rigby kept the bead trained on him. The darkness of night made him obscure, but he appeared to look like a blue jay. This figure raised his hands in surrender. He couldn't tell if the clothes were gray or blue.

Rigby judged thestranger in his mind, "He couldn't have made it through the line, and his uniform does look blue. He's part of the Union."

Mordecai stood face to face with this raccoon in a fox-hole behind enemy-lines. The lowly private lowered his rifle. "He's holding one of our rifles, and what would a Yank be doing all the way back here? He must be a Southerner," Mordecai concluded.

The avian put his gun back into his holster as he limped into the hole.

"_Tsssssss"_ Mordecai inhaled painfully as the gash in his leg bled.

"Oh, are y-"

"_shhhhhhh!"_ the officer replied.

Rigby continued, "Bu-"

_"SHH!"_ Mordecai said again, motioning his finger over his beak. He pointed over his shoulder towards the open field. The shadows of a few stragglers could be seen wandering the battlefield.

Rigby understood and nodded.

Mordecai ripped a piece of his undershirt off as he delicately wrapped it around the wound. Rigby tried to help but was pushed back. Mordecai didn't need any help, especially from a petty grunt who couldn't keep his mouth shut.

For a good ten minutes, Rigby sat in silence as Mordecai laid with his head over the lip of the crater, peering out at what he could.

Rigby sighed as he gazed up at the moon. How was he going to get out of this? If anyone knew he stayed behind like a coward...

The raccoon pulled out his journal. Just his luck! There was barely enough moonlight to see his writing, but see it he still could.

With nothing to do, Rigby jotted down what he could remember of the battle.

_"...Now I sit here with some commander who won't talk."_

Talk. Talk. That gave Rigby an idea.

He turned to a new page and wrote near the top.

Mordecai was annoyed by the sound of writing, but let it go. It was when he felt something poking him that he angrily turned around. This kid was shoving a book at him with a pencil.

Mordecai snatched the book and struggled to read through the dim light.

_"Hi, my name is Rigby."_

The penmanship was horrid as Mordecai had to read it again just to make certain he understood it. The proud man jotted down his reply before handing the journal back to its owner. He beamed proudly as his detailed cursive surpassed this poor man's excuse.

_"Hello Rigby, my name is Mordecai."_


End file.
